


Raindrop and puddles

by Hermit9



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Castiel in the Bunker, Fluff, Gen, Give Castiel a pet, POV Dean Winchester, Rain, Raindrop, Season 8-9 ish, crack adjacent, or Both, or a win, plumbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Day of rain: ?“Craigslist? Or you know, I’m sure Lebanon has one of those quaint lists of local businesses.”“For the last time Sam, no!” Dean swore. There was a gurgling sound coming from the drains that promised nothing good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for the r/fanfiction monthly challenge. 
> 
> Random Word is back!  
> Crude, flush and cleanup.
> 
> Many thanks to [FestiveFerret](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret) for the beta!

**Day of rain: ?**

“Craigslist? Or you know, I’m sure Lebanon has one of those quaint lists of local businesses.”

“For the last time Sam, no!”

Dean swore. There was a gurgling sound coming from the drains that promised nothing good.

 

* * *

 

  
**Day of rain : 10**

The spring rain had stopped being bucolic eight days ago. After a week of monsoon worthy rains, it had become a true thorn in Dean’s side. Everything was wet and miserable, getting anywhere was closer to surfing than driving. The only one who was fractionally happy was Cas. The angel’s fetishistic attachment to his oversized trench coat finally coming in handy. There was a hint of a smug smile on his face when they went out for supplies.

Dean could deal with the damp. He could deal with soaked layers of denim and the disgusting squishy sound they made when he peeled them out and off. What he couldn't deal with was the overburdened sewer systems of rural Kansas. Water overflowed in ditches and on the side of the road. Fields were logged beyond capacity and turning into swamps. And all that excess water had nowhere to go but back up pipes and into houses.

There had been community meetings and promises of financial aid at the town hall. The one problem with living in an untraceable, warded, technically nonexistent Bunker, however, was that calling in a plumber or **cleanup** company was completely out of the question.

Well, if Cas had a bit more mojo it might have been possible. Unethical maybe, but possible.

The second issue was that the main living areas were well below grade level and the sub-levels lower still. They were on the top of a small hill, but that only helped so much. The warning signs had been the ice cold (but crystal clear) water gurgling up from the floor drains in the garage and in the showers. Dean had raised Baby up on blocks to avoid her undercarriage getting wet but he’d figured it wasn’t so bad.

It got so much worse. They had about a minute head-start in the form of Sam smelling smoke. Investigating brought them down to the machinery room where some kind of pumping device appeared dead, motor still coughing up burnt oil. Then came the noise, a rushing choked sound as the ancient pipes of the bunker protested and fought the invasion. They failed, but Dean appreciated the effort. As the noise died down the smell hit them. Lebanon was a small town, but two hundred souls worth of **crude** sewage being **flush** ed straight into their sub-basement via the bathrooms and floor drains still carried _the stench_. It wasn’t Hell (not enough sulfur) or Purgatory (not enough blood), but it had a presence and body all of its own.

Their first, catastrophic, urgent, supply run was for sand bags and cheap towels to mitigate the propagation.

* * *

 

  
**Day of rain: 11**

Dean had soot on his face and grease running down both arms. He was also ankle deep in refuse and looking forward to burning all his clothes. It’s a shame really, these were comfortable jeans (and made his ass look great). But there was just no coming back from some things.

“Ok, Sammy! Try putting the power back on!” he shouted. There was no use in him tracking muck back and forth to the electric control room. And, definitely, no use in Sammy getting sick from breathing in this crap.

The pump hummed and sparked and Dean prayed to whoever still smiled on the Winchesters that they wouldn't have to deal with an electrical fire on top of everything else. After a few tense seconds, the motor sputtered to life, groaning against the overload but moving the flow back out. Dean punched his fist into the air once in victory. Then he shuffled over to the door and reached gingerly over the sandbags barricade for the brand-new rubber floor squeegee (who even knew that existed?). Starting at the door he systematically pushed water back toward the floor drain.

“Hey. Is it working?” Sam asked, curious but staying safely on the dry side.

“Yeah. I fixed it.”

“Good. Brought you a bucket and a shovel. Figured we can get a chain going.”

“Yeah, that's good Sammy.”

They fell into a rhythm. Squeegee the water. Shovel anything too dry or muddy or solid to go down the drain. Sam brought the plastic industrial buckets outside to dump them out, swapping new ones for Dean to fill. Dean wasn’t thinking about the contents of the buckets, _he wasn’t._

Around the fourth (or was it fifth?) bucket change Sam also brought clothes.

“Cas is back.”

“Oh good… he was gone?”

“Yeah, come on. He’s waiting for us in the war room.” Sam dropped the clean clothes safely away in the corridor and extended his arm to Dean. Getting out and over the barricade was a complex affair, as Dean removed his socks one by one and clung to Sam in order not to faceplant while doing it. “Man, you reek.”

“Yeah yeah. In what shower do you want me to wash, exactly, princess?”

“This is why modern science created baby wipes. There’s a pack with your clothes. I’ll let you get changed or do you need a hand?”

Dean waved his brother away. He was quite able to change and get mostly scrubbed by himself. And so what if it took him most of that packet of wipes and twenty minutes to do that. When he made it to the war room Cas was pointing something to Sam on a map or diagram. There was water running from the angel’s coat, rivulets forming puddles on the floor below him.

“Really, Cas?” Dean said, grabbing towels as he walked towards them. The first he dropped on Cas’s soaking wet hair, the second he tried to manoeuvre on the floor with his toes to get the puddles. When he looked back up Cas was staring at him, making no move toward the fabric hanging off his head like a misshapen shroud. Dean ruffled Cas’ hair with the towel.

“Don’t stay wet, you’ll catch a cold.”

“I cannot get sick, Dean.”

“Humor me.” Dean walked around the table to look at the map. “What you’ve got?”

On the table, a detailed map of Kansas was spread, with amorphous shapes in shades of gray. Probably Cas’ work since it was in actual pencil with elaborate cross-hatching.

‘What am I looking at?”

“Satellite data for rainfall over Kansas,” said Sam, “For the last month. See how Lebanon is under the darkest part there?”

“Yeah. I am aware we got a fuckload of rain. So?”

“There is a geometric pattern,” said Cas, “I am sorry it took me this long to discern it.”

Dean looked between his brother and the angel, waiting for the reveal. Cas grabbed a circle (bright teal construction paper, where had that come from?) and put it over the map. In the perfect center of the circle, Cas had punched a hole. He put Lebanon in that center and the teal covered most of the dark area.

“The brunt of the rain falls within a 30-mile radius of here,” Cas said while moving the paper minutely to match the diffuse border of the dark area, “my theory is that the variations are caused by movements of the epicentre, most likely a cursed object.”

Sam turned his laptop over, showing Dean a brightly colored Google Earth map of the area.

“I matched Cas’ theory to the town and the variations make sense. It allows for someone to go to the grocery store and the hardware store next town over while moving the storm with them.“

“Ok. Say I buy that. Isn’t that a little extreme? Do we have proof outside of years of omen tracking?”

Cas glared at him, which would have been terrifying if the tufts of hair (dutifully towel dried) didn’t give him the air of a wet dog.

“That is why I just spent the last few hours walking the boundary of the phenomenon. There is a clear demarcation line. Outside of it, any rain is the result of ground water causing over-saturation of the air as it evaporates. It has a completely different pattern and texture to what we've experienced inside the circle.”

“All right,” Dean acknowledged, “good enough for me. How do we find this thing?”

“About that,” Sam said, “I found a spell that might help.”

“Just how long have you guys been on this?”

Sam shrugged. “You were on a roll, didn't want to interrupt.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Bitch.”

* * *

 

 

**Day of rain: 12**

“I don’t like this.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam sighed, putting as much annoyance (and an ounce of warning) as he could in the inflection of the name, “we heard you the first five times.”

“But a summoning? We don't know what will come knocking to answer that call.” He shifted a bit, stretching a sore shoulder. He and Sam were holding a bright blue tarp over the makeshift altar so it could remain dry as Cas worked. There were delicate chalk lines over the card table, Cas’ own mix of pagan runes and Enochian.The brass bowl that had been Bobby’s was primed and ready for the match.

“Because,” Cas answered, “the wards in the bunker would make it uncomfortable for the being.” He struggled with the matches a few times before Dean handed him his lighter. “Also, I am calling the spirit of the storm. It’s only courtesy to be in its element.”

Cas dropped the lighter in the bowl, sending smoke and sparks up in the air. The suddenly silent and still air. The steady beat of the rain's tattoo gone from the tarp as they stood in a growing bubble of not-rain.

“Ok… what's supposed to --” Dean’s sentence died as the smoke from the bowl transformed into a thin, floating, stream of water. More water rose from the ground and trickled from the tarp to join the stream until it was about the size of a cantaloupe. The ball started spinning as it stretched and morphed into a humanoid shape, two arms with three fingered hands, two legs (wearing rain boots?) and a drop shaped head with bright sparkling eyes.

“Hello,” said Castiel.

The… _thing_ bowed its head in return then blinked and looked at Sam and Dean, waving in a friendly manner.

“That is the spirit of the storm?”

The thing nodded enthusiastically at Dean’s words.

“Huh,” said Sam, walking forward and folding up the tarp as he moved. “I expected something bigger.”

The creature turned to face him and cocked its head in puzzlement. It made its way to the edge of the not-rain bubble and stuck its arm out. As the rain fell on it, it seemed to grow taller and stronger. It turned back to Sam and winked, shaking off the excess mass like a dog and returning it to its previous size.

“It only manifested the part of the storm we are inhabiting,” said Cas. “I am guessing its true form would be overwhelming.”

He was rewarded with vigorous nods and what looked like a happy dance.

“Thanks for that,” said Dean as he helped Sam finish folding the tarp. “So, huh, why are you here?”

The thing blinked and pointed to Cas and the brass bowl still smoldering on the table.

“We mean,” Sam said, taking over and shooting an annoyed look at Dean, “in this area, making all the rain.”

The spirit stood very still and stretched out his arms at shoulder level. He started swaying from side to side, pivoting at the waist so that as one arm rose the other pointed to the ground while staying in a perfect line.

“What is that? What does that mean?”

“Is that the object that binds you?” Cas asked. There was another vigorous nod.

“Ok, So we just have to find it, destroy it and case solved!” Dean said, sounding optimistic. Maybe this summoning had been a good thing, making this hunt a lot easier.

The spirit’s eyes grew wider and it imploded, falling into the bowl as hundreds of raindrops. After a few moments, it reformed and peeked over the bowl’s edge, shyly picking ashes from its form.

“Dean!” Cas said looking up and over at the hunter. “Destroying the object would destroy the spirit. It is innocent; that is hardly an acceptable outcome.”

The spirit flew out of the bowl and grabbed onto Cas’ coat, rubbing its face against the lapels in a very cat-like behavior. It then shyly handed Cas the rather soaked lighter. Cas was still staring at Dean.

“Alright, alright! We’ll find another way.”

It took the three of them a further thirty minutes of charades to iron out a workable plan (during which the spirit gained a name). Dean learned a few things during that time that were unrelated to the case. The first being that Sam, for all his genius brain, sucked at charades. The second and third was that the spirit seemed to like Cas, and that the angel was quickly developing a habit of holding it cradled against his chest. Dean had a feeling getting Cas to let Raindrop go was going to be an issue.

* * *

 

 

**Day of rain: 12 (evening)**

This summoning idea had some merit, Dean reluctantly agreed. Once they’d negotiated an acceptable level of precipitation (so the Impala wouldn’t be even more noticeable by its suspicious dryness), they had set out to drive within Cas’ 30-mile parameters. It turned out that while Raindrop couldn’t _tell_ them where his tether was, he could act like a compass and point them in the right direction. Which is how they had found themselves parked in front of what was probably once a nice duplex, though time and neglect had taken their destructive toll. The ground floor windows and doors were boarded up with cheap plywood, darkened by water and rot. The top floor apartment was mostly dark, save one window’s flickering light betraying the presence of a playing television. A rusty staircase snaked its way up to the apartment’s door. It had once been white, judging from the flaking paint chips. Dean wiped his hand on a jean-clad leg - with his luck the damn stuff was probably lead-based.

Sam caught Dean’s eye and went around the back to cover any other exits, disappearing in the ambient gloom in a way that was profoundly unfair for a man his size. Dean took the stairs, Cas automatically flanking him with such ease that Dean was once again startled by the reminder that his awkward, dorky, little dude of a best friend was a soldier and feared commander. Dean smirked, maybe all true legendary warriors did walk around carrying the anthropomorphic incarnations of storms - said incarnation having a strong preference for mannerisms midway between a toddler and a kitten.

Dean knelt at the top of the stairs, raking the crappy lock on the door with the ease of long years. Maybe it was cheating - was there a breaking and entering handicap system? The door creaked open with a shriek of disrepair. Cas edged past Dean to take point, Raindrop on his shoulder (quite possible snuggling against his neck) and angel blade in hand. There was a beat and pandemonium broke loose in the night. Cas was coughing, there was a wild, banshee-like, scream in front of the angel, and was that a baby crying?

“Dean, stand back. I think she tried to hit me with a curse.”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I HAVE NOTHING LEFT FOR YOU TO TAKE! What the fuck more do you want?” That voice was definitely female, but human, not a banshee.

Dean raised from his crouch and took in the scene. Cas was covered in mace, eyes watering but he had stopped coughing (in fact he had given up breathing altogether). A girl, at the utmost twenty, was threatening him with the mace spray from further in the hallway. And from the sound of it there was a baby in the one bedroom behind her, wailing against the noise.

“Easy lady, we don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah right. Two guys breaking in at this hour? I’m sure you came over just for a coffee and a chat.”

“Three, actually,” Dean said, nodding at Sam. How had the Sasquatch gotten in anyways? Not that it mattered, he disarmed the girl and had her in handcuffs within twenty seconds. That might be a new speed record. Good for the kid.

They settled in the small kitchen, girl on a chair, baby no longer crying in Dean’s arms and Raindrop enthusiastically washing mace from Cas’ face with its hands, staining the angel’s shirt and trenchcoat in reds and orange as it dripped down through the elemental.

“Dean,” Sam said, coming back out of the bedroom, “I think this might be it.”

Sam was holding a wooden stick about one foot long, painted with chevron patterns in white and yellow and red. Raindrop turned around as he entered the room, standing very still with its arms stretched out again. Sam dipped the stick to the side, smiling as Raindrop followed the movement with its arms. The stick was hollow and filled with what sounded like rice or pebbles. Rain outside hit the cheap rattling windows with renewed vigor.

“Yeah, ok, good enough for me,” Dean said, “Now stop shaking it.” He turned back to the girl. “Ok witchy. What was the plan here? Drown your landlord? Where did you get this thing in the first place?”

The girl shook her head.

“My aunt dragged me to this workshop to make the sticks. I don’t believe in… in all of that. But well…” She was staring at Raindrop. And yeah, Dean had to admit that was a pretty much irrefutable proof of the supernatural right there.

“Ok, let’s step it a step back,” Sam said, coming over and carefully putting the stick on the table. “I am Sam, this is Dean, Cas is in the coat and Raindrop is the floating little guy.” He paused while they all nodded or waved. “What’s your name?”

“Indigo,” said the girl.

“Ok _Indigo_ ,” said Dean taking back over. “First of all, I’m very sorry whoever named you didn’t particularly like you. Second of all, congratulations! It appears you’re a natural witch.” He flicked his eyes to Cas who nodded, no sign of demonic deal or possession.

“I’m a what?”

“A _witch_. You can do magic. Anyways, what it means is that when you made that --” he pointed to the rainstick “you summoned that.” He pointed this time to Raindrop.

“Ok…” she answered. She was taking it rather well, but they did have a lot of insurmountable evidence. “Now what?”

“Well, Sam is going to be releasing you. And I’m going to give you back this little guy --” Dean stopped to bounce the baby a bit, making him squeal in delight. “-- and we’ll be on our way. How does that sound?”

“What’s the catch?”

“We’ll be taking the stick. And sending in some people,” Sam said, “Just so nothing like this happens again.”

Sam wrapped the rainstick in his overshirt, then rolled Cas’ coat around it until the sound was fully muffled. Dean waited to be the last one leaving, sending a blazing smile at Indigo and her kid. Cute kid. Not his fault his mom had made poor choices in toys.

* * *

 

**After the rain: Day 1**

The Bunker was clean. Sparkling clean. Every grout line, every drain, every disgusting inch of it was clean. The laundry was done, dried, and folded.

Dean sighed. He, himself, had gone straight to bed after dealing with Indigo. Sam sure as hell had not cleaned, dude would grow faint at the idea of doing laundry if he absolutely didn’t have to.

“Cas! No! You can’t keep it!” Dean yelled into the corridor looking for the angel. And a bottle of whiskey. Castiel had been taking puppy-dog eye lessons from Sam; he clearly wasn’t drunk enough to be facing this conversation.


End file.
